


There is a Garden

by glassclosetcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon divergence after The Prisoner, Dean doesn't think he's worthy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explanations, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Art, Language of Flowers, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Sam Ships It, True Love's Kiss, also, but only briefly, grace cure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassclosetcastiel/pseuds/glassclosetcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Castiel sacrifices his grace to cure Dean of the Mark of Cain, Dean is furious. They avoid one another, gradually growing more and more distant until Sam can no longer stand to watch it.</p>
<p>Cas gave up everything for Dean, and Dean has been saved, and it's all for nothing. They're hardly any better off than they were before.</p>
<p>With a push from Sam, Castiel realizes there's really only one way for Dean to understand the nature of his sacrifice. </p>
<p>He takes him to the garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is a Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Another grace cure fic? Oh, you'd better believe it.
> 
> This one was inspired by the following beautiful piece of art called "Castiel's Garden" and the incredible idea behind it, but I'll post the link at the end to avoid spoilers.
> 
> As always, endless thanks to Becca, without whom my writing would surely be crap. Thanks as well to Ash and Tennyo for the beta, and huge thanks to [Anna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionofmywaywardson/works) for allowing me to feature her painting! Go check out more of her awesome art [here](http://carrionofmywaywardson.tumblr.com).
> 
> Enjoy!

  


It is the first day of Spring. A thriving, colorful garden of flowers sways in the arid breeze. An angel passes through the blooms, touching each and every one—cupping their petals, caressing their bulbs—imbuing them with his grace. There are 1,336 flowers in all. He could use his wings, but chooses to walk among them instead. It is a suitably human gesture. 

Two hours pass, and he retreats to the shade of the looming live oak at the edge of the garden, whispering his language into its bark. He feels the life inside of it, and sees that it is good.

\--

They burned Charlie on a Thursday. At first, Sam couldn’t bring himself to open the files she’d sent to him in her final moments. But after tossing and turning all night and into the early morning hours, he realized that her death would be in vain if the decryption went untouched. In the cold morning light, Sam watched the dust kicking up under the Impala’s tires as Dean sped away to hunt down the Stynes. Sam folded himself into the blue sub-compact and headed for the abandoned distillery, laptop in tow.

It turned out that the cure to the Mark involved an infuriatingly simple spell—centuries old black magic—that Rowena decrypted using the codex: _A sacrifice willingly given for thyne brother. A sacrifice willingly given by thyne one true love._

Despite everything, Sam felt a bit of victory knowing that they were nearly there. _A sacrifice willingly given for your brother._ That much had already been done when Dean had bled himself nearly dry to save Sam’s life, not two weeks before. _A sacrifice willingly given by your one true love._ It hadn’t taken Sam long to riddle that part out.

Fortunately, Castiel had still been there, standing guard over Rowena. “Are you sure?” he’d asked when Sam explained his thoughts. 

Sam set his jaw. “You’re the best shot we’ve got,” he said. That Cas didn’t argue only made him more sure that he was right.

They tracked Dean down to a mansion in the marshy lowlands of Louisiana. Castiel could feel the ragged traces of the once Righteous Man’s soul calling out to him—a mixture of longing, fear, and resignation. He’d killed them all—nine men and six women. Four young children. A family dog. Covered in blood, Dean begged for death. Sam looked pained when he said, “It’s time, Cas.”

Castiel sent Dean into unconsciousness with a hand to the cheek.

When they got back to Kansas, Sam laid Dean out on his bed. He and Castiel stood side by side, watching the steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest as he slept.

“Cas,” Sam began. He gazed down at the angel, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

Castiel didn’t look up at him as he replied, “Yes, Sam,” voice barely more than a whisper.

“You don’t have to do this.”

At this, Castiel smiled, looking up from Dean’s sleeping form at last. “Of course I don’t,” he said. “But when has that ever stopped me?”

With that, he knelt at Dean’s bedside, taking a moment to brush the hairs away from the man’s forehead. Sam looked down at his feet—not out of discomfort, but out of a sense that the gesture was private. Something just between Castiel and Dean. He lifted his gaze in time to see the angel cupping Dean’s jaw and leaning in for a kiss. A moment later, the room was filled with light.

And then, darkness.

\--

**Present**

Sam is at his wits’ end. It’s been weeks now— _weeks_ —and still his brother and Castiel haven’t spoken to one another. The silence between them is deafening, made all the more palpable by the deathly quiet of the bunker. Its walls are poured concrete, and the acoustics are nearly non-existent. It feels like a tomb. Sam could almost laugh at the irony.

That day, weeks ago, both Dean and Castiel were given new life. At least, that’s the way Sam looks at it. Dean sees things a bit differently, choosing to believe that Castiel gave his life in exchange for Dean’s. He’s not wrong, of course. In a way, the angel Castiel is dead. But Cas, the human—with a human heart and a human pulse and a human soul—lives. 

Dean is furious.

\--

Castiel has resigned himself to feeling helpless, but it is a peaceful feeling. The sort of sensation that comes after a lifetime of fighting battles, and, after the war is over, trying to reconcile oneself with _what comes next_. Castiel doesn't know what comes next. But for now, Dean is safe. Dean is alive. And that's all that matters.

Still, the tension is palpable in the bunker. Dean doesn't acknowledge Castiel's presence, and Cas skirts by him, taking his meals late in the morning and early in the evening. They listen at doors and around corners for one another, and Dean often turns right back around if he sees Castiel coming.

"Just give him time, Cas," Sam says one day, catching Castiel's hopeless stare at Dean's retreating frame.

Yes, Castiel will give him that. It's all he has left to give.

\--

Another week of uncomfortable silence passes before Sam decides to intervene. He catches Cas on his way out of the bathroom. Tries not to notice the cuts across his jaw where he nicked himself shaving. “I think we should tell him,” Sam says, following Cas into his bedroom and shutting the door.

Castiel pauses with the white towel around his neck. There’s a patch of blood on it from where he wiped his face. It’s startlingly red. Deep, bruise-like rings sit heavily under the ex-angel’s eyes, as if the years spent without need for sleep have caught up with him all at once. He looks as exhausted as Sam feels.

“I don’t know that that will accomplish anything, Sam,” he says, pulling the towel over his head and through his hair. He blots the water from his face with it. Sam looks away when he lingers too long at his eyes.

“It… maybe it won’t,” Sam says, staring at the cement floor beneath his feet, “but we’ve lied to each other enough. You know... that’s all we ever do. Lying to Dean is what got Charlie killed, for Christ’s sake.”

Castiel exhales—a long, stuttering thing—and Sam looks up to meet his tired gaze. “I’m sick of lying to my brother, Cas. I know you are, too. He's hardly any better off now than he was when he had the Mark. You guys finally have a shot at being happy, and you’re just fucking wasting it. You’re finally human, and you’re wasting your chance. All of this shit… Charlie.... All of it will be for nothing.” 

Sam has been so frustrated for so long that it manifests now as a bone-deep weariness. He moves to leave the room but pauses at the door. Leaning against the frame, he sighs. A bitter laugh escapes against his will. He says to Castiel’s back, “I think he deserves to know the truth.”

Sam is almost out of the room when Cas speaks again. 

“There is a garden.”

\--

They’ve taken to breaking off in twos—Sam and Dean together, Cas and Sam together, but never Cas and Dean—to investigate cases. Their curtness with one another feels infuriatingly familiar, though it hasn’t been this way for over a year. Not since Gadreel. Sam thinks it may be why Dean is still talking to him; he took away Dean’s free agency and went behind his back to cure the mark, getting Charlie killed in the process. But there’s a distinct feeling of closure to it. As if Dean believes this is the payback he’s gotten for refusing to let Sam die after the trials. His payback for Kevin.

“There’s a case in Arizona,” Sam says. Dean is sitting in the library at the chair farthest from the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. The farthest seat from Cas. “Cas wants to come.”

He catches the way Dean’s jaw clenches. The way his hand curls into a slow fist. 

Dean clears his throat. “Good for him,” he says, staring into space.

Sam knows it’s the best he’ll get out of him, so he nods once and leaves the room.

He finds Castiel in his room, packing what few possessions he has into a small army bag. “Cas,” Sam says, his brow knit in concern. He stays in place at the door, not wanting to invade what little privacy he has.

They haven’t spoken much about the spell or the sacrifice—not since the day that Sam called, voice wrecked with equal parts triumph and regret, knowing that a cure for his brother was in his reach. Realizing that the key to his salvation also meant the damnation of an angel to a mortal life. He'd given Cas the choice with the promise of understanding his decision, no matter what. 

Castiel, however, had never doubted his own conviction. He had given everything for Dean Winchester. He would do it again a thousand times over. He’d pressed his lips to Dean’s, sending his grace into the man’s body in a whispered prayer to whomever might still be listening: _May Dean Winchester be saved again._

It had felt like bearing witness to a miracle when Castiel woke to find that the spell worked. He hadn’t even had a moment to marvel at the meaning of it all before reality came crashing back down. Sam was quick to tell him that he hadn’t explained the nature of the sacrifice to Dean, that he’d wanted to leave it to Castiel to explain himself. He never got the chance.

Now, Sam watches Castiel packing his things for a moment, surveying the sparse sleeping space that he would call a dormitory, perhaps, but never a bedroom. “The spell didn’t _just_ call for a sacrifice from someone who loves _him_ , you know,” Sam says. He laces his voice with heavy implication.

Cas hasn’t worn his tan overcoat since that day nearly one month ago. He holds it in his hands without reverence. It is only a coat, after all. He looks up at Sam and smiles, and it is a small, painful thing. “I know,” he says, and puts the coat in the bag with everything else.

\--

They set out at dawn on a Wednesday morning. Castiel situates himself behind the driver's seat so that he can more easily communicate with Sam. So that he will be out of Dean's line of sight.

Dean asks about the case, and Sam gives sparse details about a string of unsolved disappearances, tales of a dark spirit pulling young girls out of their homes and into the desert. "What're we thinkin'?" Dean asks. "Wendigo? Dragon?"

Sam shrugs against his seat belt. Truthfully, there may be a case, but Sam is almost positive that it's _not their kind of thing_. Still, he reassures himself that it's worth checking out, just to be safe—not to mention that it happens to be within a five-mile radius of the garden. Castiel assured him that he would still be able to locate the place without the aid of his heightened angelic senses.

Conversation drops off after the case speculation dies down, and for a few hundred miles, Dean turns the radio dial back and forth whenever the current station crackles with static. They stop for lunch at a little place off of I-25, somewhere in southern Colorado. Dean hangs back until Sam and Cas seat themselves across from one another, and then slides in next to Sam and orders black coffee and a turkey sandwich. He eats half of it and stares at the rest.

Sam clears his throat and looks expectantly at Cas. It's the first time Dean and Castiel have been within ten feet of one another in weeks, and it feels rather like the forcing together of two negatively charged magnets. Castiel fidgets with his napkin where it sits stuffed under his water glass. The soggy paper tears in his fingers.

"I had hoped, perhaps, that we might make a pit stop, since we will be near the Reservation," he says. Dean doesn't look up at him, but he nods a little. It's the most acknowledgement Castiel has gotten from him since falling, and the emotion that floods through him is amplified tenfold by his human endocrine system.

He half expects Dean to have a tasteless retort of some kind, but he is silent as he picks at the buttered crust of his sandwich, keeping his eyes fixed on the formica tabletop.

"We can check it out on the way back," Sam supplies. They sit in silence until the waitress drops off their check.

They reach Arizona just as the sun touches the hills in the distance, bathing the vast desert in warm oranges and pinks. It's too late to do any witness questioning, so they find a cheap motel close to the Grand Canyon. Dean books two separate rooms, handing the key to room 14 to Cas without looking at him. Sam casts an apologetic glance over his shoulder at Cas as he follows Dean into room 13. They don their Fed suits and hit the road again. 

Traveling by Sam's GPS guidance, they reach the improbably named township of Tuba City just after 7:00. The place seems frozen in time, a shadow of the glory days of Route 66. Everything is dusty and brown, giving the appearance that the whole place is slowly returning to the desert from which it sprung. 

There are only two cars in the Sheriff's Department lot. A receptionist looks up at them disinterestedly as they enter the building, stowing sunglasses and straightening suit jackets. Dean foregoes the Winchester charm in place of his "Agent Brian May" professionalism, introducing himself and his associates, Agent Deacon and Agent Meddows.

The receptionist is older, with salt and pepper hair that falls past her waist. She squints her dark eyes in confusion when they flash their badges. 

"Do you have new information?" she asks.

Sam and Dean exchange a look. "Actually, not yet,” Dean says. “We were just hoping to check up on our associate's progress here," he guesses, and by the look on her face, he's hit the mark. They aren’t the first hunters to come here. "He's kinda new, you know. Still a rookie. Wanted to make sure he was being thorough."

"Oh, yes," the woman replies, looking more certain. "He was very helpful and thoughtful. He only stayed for a half a day or so, but he interviewed all of the witnesses, talked to some of the victims' families, then told us you would be in touch."

Sam smiles and nods. "Excellent. Well, we'll... be in touch." He ignores the look Dean gives him.

They turn tail and leave the building, waiting until they're safely within the confines of the Impala before speaking. "You thinking Garth?" Dean asks, backing out of the space and heading once more for the motel two towns over.

Sam already has his phone in his hand. "That's exactly what I'm thinking."

A few minutes later, Sam lowers the phone from his ear and clicks the screen off. "We were right. It was Garth. He came here this morning. Sounded pretty upset that he missed us, actually."

Dean snorts. "So he think this is our kind of thing, or what?"

"Nope, no signs of spirits, no pattern, so it’s not a Wendigo, he ruled out rugarus and werewolves and dragons. By lunchtime he had a hunch that it wasn't anything supernatural at all. Did some digging around and found out one of the girls' little sisters had stayed silent during police questioning. I guess he got her to talk with a hand puppet?" He huffs an incredulous laugh. Dean just rolls his eyes.

"Anyway, seems like it's just a run-of-the-mill human scumbag. He called it in to the FBI for real, just to be thorough, so we should steer clear of Tuba City after this."

"Awesome," Dean says, annoyance clear in his voice. "Well, it's," he checks his watch, "just after nine. I had that coffee back in Colorado, so I'm good if you are." His wording is nondescript, but Sam gets the feeling that Dean is addressing this to him alone, pointedly ignoring Castiel's presence in the back seat as he has been all day.

Sam turns to look at Cas, catching the concern in his friend's face. "We should stay the night," he says, aiming for nonchalance.

Dean flicks his eyes between Sam and Castiel in the rearview mirror, almost too fast to be noticeable. "Right," he says, drawing the word out in a cruel impersonation of the distant sarcasm he had as a demon. "The thing. Whatever it is. You wanna see the Grand Canyon in the daylight or something?" He doesn't meet Cas' eyes when he asks, but he raises his voice just enough to reach the backseat.

Cas shakes his head. "There is... something on the reservation. I'd like to see it."

"Cryptic," Dean says. "Gotta love it." 

They drive the rest of the way in silence.

\--

Sam wakes early the next morning and runs to the closest 24-hour diner. He knocks on Cas' door with his elbow and hands him a coffee from the cardboard drink holder he's carrying. Cas looks worse than usual, and Sam suspects he stayed up all night worrying.

"I'll talk to him," Sam says in a low voice, setting the coffees down on the motel room dresser so he can dole out a Styrofoam container of breakfast to Cas. "Give me five minutes." He picks up the drink holder and nudges the door open with a hip, pausing to turn back and amend, "Ten. Give me ten minutes."

Ten minutes later, after he's plied Dean with pancakes and eggs and sausage and coffee, Sam takes the plunge.

"Cas wants you to come today, to see the... thing." He shifts nervously as Dean chews, processing this information. Dean swallows thickly and clears his throat.

"What is this, middle school? Guy can't talk to me himself?" Dean sets his plastic fork down and wipes his mouth with a napkin, ignoring the rest of his meal.

"Apparently not, Dean," Sam bites, but he backs off, running a hand through his hair. He meant to keep his voice level. Anything will set his brother off these days. It's almost worse than when he still had the Mark.

"He's tried talking to you for months, and you either ignore him or bite his head off. So no, he didn't really think he could talk to you himself." Sam pauses to collect his thoughts, deciding on his next words carefully.

"There's something you really need to see. I think it'll—" He breaks off, moving away from terms like 'help' and 'fix' and 'save.' If there's one thing Sam knows about his brother, it's that Dean is an expert in denial. He's probably convinced himself there's nothing wrong about their current situation. Instead, Sam opts for, "I think you'll be glad that you went."

Dean frowns, but seems to feel like any further discussion on the matter would lead them into 'feelings' territory, so he steers the conversation away. "How long is this gonna take?"

Sam doesn't consider it a win, necessarily, but it's better than nothing.

\--

The roar of the Impala’s engine seems somehow obscene in the solemn quiet of the Arizona desert. Dean grits his teeth against the bumping and thudding of her tires over the uneven dirt road leading to the Hopi village. Castiel directs him far out into the scrub, driving for miles with nothing to guide them but the parallel lines in the ground worn down by the repeated passing of many tires.

People eye them curiously as Cas directs Dean to park off to the side next to a camper and some dusty trucks, a little bit away from the cluster of boxy dwellings. "Wait here," Cas tells them, and gets out.

"Should we have put the Fed suits on or something?" Dean asks, feeling self-conscious under the scrutiny of the curious onlookers.

They watch Cas turn down a little alleyway and disappear. "I think they know him here," Sam says, and leaves it at that.

A few minutes pass, and Sam watches the slow progress of the shadows on the horizon as the sun arches its way over the sky. He knows the Grand Canyon is just around the corner. Thinks about the last time he and Dean were in this area. It's been close to ten years, he guesses. Maybe more. He wonders if Cas would like to see it.

A moment later, Castiel appears at the passenger side window and beckons them to get out. He's carrying a brown leather shoulder bag. "It's just this way," he says.

"I’ll just, uh," Sam begins, feeling uncertain. 

Cas shakes his head. "You can come." 

Sam lays a heavy, reassuring hand on his shoulder. He looks at Dean and back as Cas, giving his friend a smile. “I’ll stay.”

Dean gives them both a look but says nothing. Cas sets off without another word, down a nearly-invisible foot path leading toward the the distant hills to the west. Dean begrudgingly follows.

Sam watches them go for a moment, registering in his periphery that everyone in the village has come outside to watch with him. He wonders if they all know the story; if that's why they're eerily silent. A little boy next to him whispers, “Is that him?” and Sam knows.

 

The two men trudge through the sand and the scrub in near-silence for what feels like hours. Cas pulls two water bottles from the leather satchel and hands one to Dean, taking a long pull from his own. "It shouldn't be much farther now," he says, voice a little breathless. He’s glad they set out early, but even so, the mid-morning sun beats down heavily on their backs.

Cas can sense Dean’s simmering anger and annoyance building up to a boil as the minutes wear on, but he doesn’t speak. Cas fishes the last water bottle out of his bag when he notices Dean fanning himself with a hand. Dean takes it with a murmured, “Thanks.” It's the first time anything has been said in quite some time.

A glimmering mirage begins to make itself known on the horizon—a sea of green and pinks and reds and yellows, shimmering and taunting them from a distance. Cas points. “There. Just up ahead.” 

As they get nearer, the gently swaying flowers and the towering tree above them seem no more than a fever dream in the harsh desert landscape, but Cas can’t help the satisfied smile that spreads over his face. _They are still alive. They’re all still alive._

“What the hell is this?” Dean huffs. He sounds more curious than anything as he scans the horizon, taking in the veritable field of bright blooms before them. “This where an angel fell or something?”

Castiel waits to speak until they reach the edge of the garden. He pauses and crouches on one knee so that he can touch the closest flower—a pink camellia. He cups the petals tenderly, feeling the electric charge of his grace running through it. It whispers to him, and he hums back to it.

“Not exactly,” he says, after a time. 

Dean is standing patiently behind him, blessedly too overwhelmed by the sight to be angry at Cas for insisting he come. He kneels and reaches for a cluster of flowers a few feet away. They're a purple hyacinth. As soon as his fingers make contact, he yanks his hand back as if burned. “Shit,” he says, shaking his hand out. “What is that?”

“Grace,” Castiel says, cupping a few more flowers in turn. He breathes in and out, basking in the quietude and solemn peace for a bit longer. “ _My_ grace,” he adds, a moment later. He stands and surveys the garden, waiting for Dean to speak.

Dean stands and dusts off the knees of his jeans. “Your grace,” he repeats, looking confused and incredulous, and maybe a little defensive.

Castiel steps into the garden, marvelling at the temperature difference that he never noticed as an angel. The air among the flowers is sweet and cool and softly humming. He knows Dean has followed by the sharp intake of breath behind him.

“Cas, man,” Dean says, curiosity getting the best of him. “Seriously, what the hell is this?”

Cas turns and lowers himself to sit in a space between a few clusters of zinnias. He gestures for Dean to take a seat across from him. Dean steps gingerly around the flowers until he reaches a safe, empty spot to sit. His face is smooth and lovely, nearly devoid of the hard lines that have etched themselves there over the past year or so. He looks just as Castiel remembers him, after he found ‘Emmanuel,’ after Purgatory, in the briefest moments when Cas was revived after being killed by the reaper, April. Castiel knows, now, what that look means—a small part of him must have known it all along—and now it’s time for Dean to know, too.

“This is my garden, Dean,” Cas says, looking around at the flowers. “I planted them all. The tree as well. I’ve been coming here as often as I could over the past two years, watching them grow, making sure that they stayed alive. I haven't been able to come, since..." he trails off, unwilling to bring it up yet. The _since I became human_ goes unspoken. "I was afraid they'd have died without my attention, but they've survived. They’re all still here,” he adds in a near-whisper, mostly to himself.

Dean’s eyes scan the field again. Cas notices how, even surrounded by the abundance of verdancy as they are, Dean’s eyes are still the most vibrant green in the whole garden.

“Why?” Dean asks. He reaches a hesitant hand out to one of the yellow zinnias by his knee and touches, keeping his hand in place to feel the current that runs through it. He grazes a few more flowers with his fingertips before he looks up at Cas.

"I had hoped I would never have to tell you any of this," Cas says. "But it's time you knew."

He swallows around the inexplicable tightness in his throat. "Do you remember what happened on March 20th, 2013?" he asks.

Dean frowns, squinting in thought. "Um. No?"

Castiel's smile is sad. "The day I nearly killed you," he says. He can tell by the look on Dean's face when the date finally registers. 

"Yeah, I uh," Dean trails off. "I kinda try not to think about that too much." 

Castiel nods. "I understand. I feel I have a responsibility to think about it as often as possible," he explains. "Thus, the garden."

Dean hesitates, looking around as if for answers amongst the foliage. Finding none, he turns back to Cas. "Buddy, you're gonna have to explain it better than that."

Castiel makes the decision to explain everything. _He deserves to know_ , he reminds himself.

"I could only be controlled by Naomi to a certain extent," Cas begins. "There was always one thing that she could never make me do. I would never hurt you."

Dean looks as if he might speak, so Castiel hurries to continue. "While under her mind control, I was trained. Conditioned, I suppose you could say. Naomi produced copies of you, one after another, and tried to get me to kill them."

Dean's face is slowly twisting in horror. Cas looks down and away, cupping a zinnia for strength.

"The first hundred times or so, I wouldn't do it. She had to use physical force to overpower me. After that, I would be… punished if I didn’t comply. Still, I resisted. Several hundred more times. But after awhile, it’s almost as if I was losing the ability to recognize your face.” Cas looks up at Dean again, at the man whose face he’s so perfectly memorized, wondering how he could ever mistake him for someone else.

“You… the copies of you would cry or shout, or beg me for mercy. I stopped hearing them, after a time.”

Dean looks at him with such pain in his face that Castiel has to look away. The expression is all too familiar.

“I resisted one thousand, three hundred and thirty-five times,” he says, feeling a fresh wave of regret washing over him. “I was broken by the next one. I had gone completely blind to you. All I knew was duty and obedience. I killed the last copy of you on my own.”

“Cas—” Dean starts, but Castiel holds up a hand to silence him. He lets out a slow, deep breath. 

"On March 21st, I retrieved one thousand, three hundred and thirty-six flowers and flew to this place to plant them. One for each copy of you that I killed while under Naomi’s control. I know it’s not much, but I felt I needed to do something.” He looks up and away, to the live oak at the edge of the field. “I have lived for millions of your years, but hurting you has been my biggest regret by far.”

Dean scoots closer so that their knees are touching. He rests a hand on Cas’ leg and squeezes softly. “It wasn’t you, Cas,” Dean says. “It was Naomi. Same goddamn thing happened to me in Hell, you know that?” He smiles a bit at the memory, even though Castiel knows it must be an extremely painful one.

“Held out forty years, but by the end I couldn’t do it anymore. I was broken, Cas. But I stayed strong as long as I could. Sometimes, I think… that just has to be enough.”

Castiel feels months’ worth of tension bleeding away, replaced by warmth and light and hope. He hesitates, briefly, before laying his hand on Dean’s. Dean lets him.

“It will never be enough,” Castiel says, sadly. “But I wanted to remember. I wanted to… re-learn you. I wanted to remember how I felt about you, before the conditioning. It never went away, I know that now. If it had, I’d have killed you—the real you—in the crypt. But my love for you held me back.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Castiel forges on, unable to stop now. “It was my love for you that made me fight. It was so strong that I resisted over a thousand times. It was so strong that I remembered you, through it all. It was my love for you that broke the connection.” 

He pulls his hand away, but Dean’s remains, warm and steady on Cas’ leg. “I planted the flowers in remembrance of you, and brought each bloom to life with my grace. I re-learned my love for you with each one, and continued to nurture them all so that I would never forget again.”

Dean looks shell-shocked and uncertain, but the reaction is better than what Castiel expected. After a moment or so of silence, Dean cocks his head to the side and asks, “The tree?”

Castiel smiles fondly, looking back at it again. “That, I planted for you, the real you. The version that I could never kill.”

Dean’s eyes are wide with wonder or terror or both; Castiel can’t be certain. But he doesn’t pull away, so Castiel lays his hand back on top of Dean’s and interlaces their fingers.

“I need to tell you why I sacrificed my grace for the cure.”

Dean’s eyes harden again, but he keeps his hand in place. “I know why,” he says. “‘Cause you’re a damn fool who fell for a dumbass human who you’d do anything for.”

“That may be so,” Castiel says, “but that’s not why I did it. When Sam decrypted the spell, he asked me immediately if I would help. Not because he knew I would do anything for you, but because he suspected I was the only one who _could_ help.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks. “Couldn’t you just gank _one more_ angel? Fuckin’ Metatron, _anyone_ for god’s sake? Why did it have to be your grace, Cas?” He’s angry now, but it’s anger borne from passion. Castiel knows the feeling. He’s experienced it himself, many times. Always for Dean. The thought makes him smile.

“The spell called for something that only one person could give,” Cas says. He pauses to squeeze Dean’s hand and hold it tight. “It required a sacrifice willingly given by your one true love.”

Dean’s mouth falls open, slowly, centimeter by centimeter. Castiel picks his hand up and cradles it in both of his, giving him a moment to process the information he’s been given.

“I was searching for my grace for months because I had hoped it would be enough to cure you. I would have done it no matter what, if only because I knew that my love has saved you before.” Here, he glances up at the live oak again. “I never doubted my own love, Dean. Only yours.”

“Cas,” Dean starts. His face is a storm of emotions—anger and fear and doubt all fight for dominance. In the end, his expression crumples and he hangs his head. “I’m not worth it, don’t you get it?” he says, voice cracked and rough, little more than a whisper. “Why would you do it?”

Castiel reaches forward and pulls Dean’s chin up until their eyes meet. He returns his hand to its place, curled lovingly around Dean's. He holds Dean's eyes with a weary smile. “Dean, we’re in love.” It’s the simplest thing in the world to say it, after all this time.

Castiel feels the time ticking away by the heartbeat in Dean’s hand, held tightly in-between his own. What feels like hours pass between them, though he knows it’s only been a few seconds. 

“What would you have done?” Castiel asks.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. “I’d have done it without a second thought.”

“As I did,” Castiel says. “If given the choice to live for eternity as an angel without you on this Earth, or to live a finite human life by your side, I would choose you every time. Don’t you see?”

Dean wipes a single tear away with the back of his hand. After a moment or two of silence, listening to the pleasant hum of the life all around them, Dean sniffs and says, “So, one true love, huh? Does that mean I get true love’s kiss?”

Castiel doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s what Sam suggested for the cure, yes.”

Dean turns a wonderful shade of pink. Castiel laughs and stands, holding a hand out to help him to his feet. He feels light, and effervescent. For the first time in months, he feels like he could fly. 

“Come,” he says, and leads Dean by the hand to the shade of the live oak tree. 

Castiel decides that true love’s kiss shouldn't be restricted to times of mortal peril, and resolves to make it a very frequent occurrence.

Dean seems more than happy to oblige.

**Author's Note:**

> _And they live happily ever after._
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> THANK YOU FOR READING! Here are the flowers Castiel planted and their meanings:
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> Purple hyacinth - Please forgive me  
> Pink camellia - Longing for you  
> Marigold - Grief  
> Dark red rose - Mourning  
> Primrose - I can’t live without you  
> Yellow zinnia - Daily remembrance  
> Live oak - Life, strength, loyalty, family
> 
> As I mentioned before, this story was inspired by [this post](http://carrionofmywaywardson.tumblr.com/post/114317698010/castiels-garden-for-hallie-happy-belated). Go check it out and love on the art.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my little fairy tale. Come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com) if you did!


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